


Written In the Wind (everywhere I go)

by musiclily88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Coming Out, Fluff, Hypochondria, M/M, New Orleans, Reading week, Uni AU, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6533386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One where Louis and Harry take a trip to New Orleans and learn a bit about fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written In the Wind (everywhere I go)

**Author's Note:**

> 1.The title is absolutely from that ~beautiful holiday song from the film Love Actually. “If you really love Christmas, come on and let it snoooOWWW.”  
> 2.This is a fluffy goddamn disaster.  
> 3.I went to school in New Orleans and the palm-reading scene was stolen from my actual life  
> 4.ENJOY  
> 5\. Only Harry and Louis are in this overtly and Niall is mentioned in passing. Das it.  
> 6.I sort of reference trauma fatigue//the fact that people got sick of talking about Katrina, but shit, folks, Katrina’s effects are still alive and well. However this is a fluffy fic about British tourists visiting my beloved city, so it’s more a passing reference.

They’re walking casually through the French Quarter, their figures cutting into the hazy humidity with a slow pace. Harry’s hair is halfway up in a bun, sweat collecting around his hairline; he’s got one pair of aviators on his glistening face and anther tucked into the collar of his deep v-neck.

He’s rambling on about tourism and the lingering effects of Katrina plus damage to the 9th ward and Louis _is_ listening, he’s not trying to ignore the impact of racism on the gloried city of New Orleans. He’s _not._ He’s probably not. But he’s sweaty, too, in his slip-on Vans, tattered jean shorts, and thin vest. He wasn’t made for hot climates—he’s from Doncaster, and he’s thirsty besides, his tongue constantly sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Okay, hold on the history lesson, H. I need water.” He steps under an awning and shoves into an air-conditioned shop, sighing loudly.

He buys himself a red Gatorade and a sparkling water for Harry, who for some reason is still outside—watching a group of children perform a tinny tap-dance. It seems to Louis the kids’ve attached stray bits of metal to the bottoms of regular trainers, but their rhythm’s pretty impressive. He watches Harry grin, as hopelessly charmed as Harry _always_ gets about kids being clever. Louis slips a few small bills into their collection bucket before Harry can hand over his entire damn wallet.

The smallest of the dance troupe peels off from the group, sidling up to Harry. Her hair is pulled into two thick braids and somehow she’s not breathless despite their endless tapping in 32 degree heat.

“Hey mister, bet you five bucks I know where you got ‘dem shoes.”

Harry nods at her solemnly without looking down at his low-heeled boots.

“Haz—“ Louis warns, a beat too late.

“Okay.”

“Well, right now you got ‘dem shoes on a street in New Orleans!” she crows, giving them both a cheeky grin.

Harry tips his head back and full-on cackles, slapping his thigh with one hand. He forks over the cash while congratulating her, and then he accepts the water from Louis.

“You’re hopeless, you know.”

“She wasn’t wrong, Lou! Fair is fair,” Harry argues.

“Bro, it’s a scam.” Louis rolls his eyes indulgently. “Whatever. Where to next?” They’ve covered quite a few touristy things—hurricanes, the walking ghost tour, and beignets were Louis’ demands, and jumbalaya plus the historical parts of the city on the top of Harry’s. Louis reckons it’s only fair that Harry get another demand or two, since them eating beignets turned into Harry finding powdered sugar all over his body for days. Exploring the Garden District was mutual, Louis thinks, since it ended with them stumbling onto Tulane’s frat row just in time to join in watching the Kappa Sig pledges get hazed. All things considered, it was tame, Louis thought—he’d done worse to Haz during their Freshers’ Week, and he only knew Harry a few days back then.

All the Kappa Sig pledges did was dress up in wedding dresses and keep guests’ drinks filled during a crowded frat party. No one even had to wear a _muzzle._

Louis and Harry made friends with some seniors who spent a semester in Scotland, which—close enough. They at least understood Reading Week and why Harry and Louis felt the need to get the hell out of Manchester for a bit.

They expected mild weather, not a November heat wave—and the rum never helps when Louis is over-hot, so he appeals to Harry’s sensible side. “Something with a fan or some air-con, maybe? Please? I’m dying. The sun is killing me.”

“It’s November. You’re just hungover.”

“Hush. Find me a mausoleum to nap in, all the ones yesterday were bricked up.”

“Probably because _otherwise_ people like you would vandalize someone’s final resting place.”

Louis scoffs. “Casting aspersions, again, Curly. I see how it is. Well, see if I tell you how to get back to the hotel, eh?”

Harry immediately clasps Louis’ forearm, pressing in hard—Louis ought to get used to Harry and the handsiness, since they’re both as close as ridiculous-hall-lads know how to be. “I know just the—” He doesn’t even finish his thought, just drags Louis across the pavement.

Louis stops short when he spots the tiny storefront, because it’s frankly ridiculous and also so, so, Harry. “Oh my god. Go waste your money, then—this should be good.”

Harry, who stopped short when Louis tugged on his hand, grins and yanks him forward again. “It’s _necessary,_ Lou, come on! It’s a tourist must-do, innit?”

“Getting your palm read by a scam artist in a shop she probably sub-lets from a drug lord? Sure.” Louis rolls his eyes.

Harry hums. “That was a good one—write that down.”

Louis has himself convinced he can write the great British ex-pat novel, as he’s sworn off England and plans to move to New York or L.A. A bit of him hopes Harry will relocate too.

He acquiesces, pulling his small moleskine (an airport find of Harry’s, because of course, from his pocket and writes down his quip, using the mini golf pencil he keeps on hand for such emergencies. Niall’s idea, that forward-thinking lad. He’s supportive of Louis’ genius.) Louis puts his notebook back after writing down his statement—the pages are really just littered with caustic one-liners and doodles of cocks—and takes out his phone. He thumbs it open and takes a quick snap of Harry. “Gonna record this for eternity. Oughta be hilarious.”

“Don’t be jealous of the mystics, Louis. It’s petty.” Harry’s voice has gone airy the way it does when he’s taking the piss.

Louis just rolls his eyes.

They step into the dim shop, and Louis’ eyes take a moment to adjust. All the furniture is weird, low and squashy, and there are a few artistic renderings of fairies and dragons on the walls. Louis doesn’t snort, but it’s a near thing.

“Greetings!” calls—someone from a back room. The sound of plastic beads sounds—some sort of doorway bead curtain, no doubt—before an old woman joins them. Like, _old._ Combo of Umbridge and the weird short lady from _Teen Witch._ It’s disconcerting.

Louis feels tall. This is not a common occurrence. She—looks like a toadstool. Or a footstool.

He is definitely hungover.

She moves a chair over so Harry can sit down, gesturing to another nearby one for Louis. “My name is Tia Margarita. Thank you for blessing me with your beautiful presence.”

It’s clearly a fake name. It’s clearly a fake everything. She’s absolutely wearing a polyester faux-kimono.

Probably.

“Hi! I’m Harry.” He literally shoots his hand out to shake with hers, and thankfully she smiles indulgently. For now.

“Have a seat, kind stranger.” Tia gestures broadly, taking in the entire room. “Let me read your palm.”

Harry spreads out the way he always does, legs spindly and face relaxed. He sets both hands down on top of the low table between him and _Tia Margarita._ Louis doesn’t snort.

“Your lines! They are beautiful! So clear,” she exclaims, sitting across from him. “Strong lifeline you have here, young man.”

“Th-thanks?”

She nods. “Now let me examine, let me see.” She pores over his palm, tracing it gently with one finger. Harry laughs, but then—he’s ticklish.

Sometimes Louis thinks he’s imagining things because it’s an old impulse, an old habit from way-gone childhood. Like something from fricking Dickens or the classic _My Girl,_ Louis was an overwhelmed hypochondriac who obsessively read obituaries. _As a child._ As a child, Louis visited the A &E more often than necessary, but—but home was tiny babies and whining sisters, and more love than he could handle. And not enough attention.

So he learned to key into everything that everyone said, in case—in case it was about him.

And he’s keyed in now.

“This loveline! My boy, you will meet her at, at a party! Around 23 years old, and you will be reluctant to speak to her. But she will make you _laugh,”_ Tia continues, not aware that Louis’ gone green. “Oh, and you will marry young and have many, many babies. Three at least.”

“I _do_ want kids.”

Louis swallows. “Even as young as you are?”

“Course.”

The psychic nods. “It is fortold.”

***

Louis is on a tear.

He’s lost a shoe, although perhaps Harry has it, but Louis’ gained a very strong mojito, four strands of beads complete with cock charms, and a number on his arm in smeared Sharpie from a lovely and inebriated woman on her bachelorette party.

“Wrong tree, love,” he slurred apologetically. Her slightly more sober friend gave him the cock beads with a muttered _sorry._ He only realizes later that he just admitted, technically, and to a stranger, that he’s gay. For the first time.

Even Harry doesn’t know.

 _Shit._ Does Harry know?

And suddenly, duh, Louis _wants_ Harry to know. Because Harry has a wife and babies waiting in the wings, but Louis is _here_ and _real._ And drunk.

He turns around and there Harry is, smiling gently and handing him water. Harry is the best.

“You’re the best,” Louis says.

“Thanks, babe.

“Want some cock beads?” Louis gestures to his neck.

“Neh.”

“Wanna go home?”

They both sag into nods.

***

The next morning is a New Orleans nightmare. Louis still has the bride’s number on his arm and one strand of beads on his neck. Otherwise, he’s naked and hungover, half-covered by a sheet.

In the other bed—surprisingly, since he’s an aggressive cuddler—is Harry, star-fished out on the mattress.

“H!”

“Wha.”

Good. Both hungover then.

“Did I try to kiss you last night?”

“Nah.” This does _seem_ to get Harry’s attention. “Why?”

Louis snorts. “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of your wifey, is all.”

“As if.”

 

It’s their last full day, and they’re both nursing hangovers and full Bloody Marys. Louis can’t decide what to order because everything sounds delicious and nauseating. He closes his menu with a groan and plops his head down on top of it.

“Just order for me, will you?” His voice sounds raspy. He really should stop smoking.

“Sure, dear. Whatever you say.” Harry’s sincere tone does nothing for Louis’ nausea, but then he orders a ham and cheese omelette, tater tots, and banana pancakes—all for them to share.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” Louis mutters, having already lifted his head to return the menu to their server.

“Yeah?” Harry’s grin almost splits his face apart.

“Yeah. Do any girl proud.”

Harry bites at his bottom lip. “And you?”

“Hm?”

“Would I do you proud?”

Louis scrunches his face up. “Already do.”

“Not—that’s now what I meant.” His eyes are clear and open wide, guileless—no flirtation, nothing cheeky. Just pure sentiment.

“I—what?”

Harry shrugs. “If you’ll have me, I think I could do you proud.”

“Where is this coming from?” Louis’ headache is legend, but so is the clench in in his chest, because this could mean—everything.

Harry snakes his hand out, palm up. He chuckles a little. “C’mon, Lou. Lovelines are only skindeep. Why be written on my hand when we could be written in the stars?”

Louis’ loud, amused groan is quickly cut off by a laughing kiss from Harry.

And they’re done-for.

**Author's Note:**

> This is weird and fluffy. I like thinking about fate and fortunes and magic. Hell, I went to school in New Orleans. Do with it whatcha will.
> 
> tumblr: musiclily


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